


In Too Deep

by CeleritasSagittae



Series: Fey Hearts and Faithful Hands [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Courtship, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Sleep Deprivation, Smooching, Snowed In, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-06 07:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13406232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleritasSagittae/pseuds/CeleritasSagittae
Summary: After laying Cailan's body to rest, the entire party that's supposed to stop the Fifth Blight catches ill--except for the two Wardens and the dog.  Playing nursemaid, keeping everyone fed, and guarding against the random darkspawn attack would be difficult enough without feelings getting involved, but apparently Alistair doesn't like playing real life on Easy Mode.Maker help him.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> I am indebted to bohemiantea for the title, and to my husband, who inspired a non-zero quantity of Alistair's lines and behavior in this fic.

He couldn’t stop looking at her.

She was elbow-deep in ram guts, rooting around inside the carcass, her motions natural from a lifetime of hunting, and he couldn’t stop looking at her.  _Rare_ and _wonderful_ and _fierce_ and _beautiful_ and _clever_ , and any moment now, she was going to notice he was staring, and –yep, _there_ , duck your head back down, back to work, try your best not to blush (that is not even _close_ to your best, Alistair, and you know it), and be grateful she’s got her arms full of offal because it means she won’t come over right away.

Lightly, he tapped his brow to one of the plates in the mail he was repairing (or trying to repair).  Alistair was falling for her, and he knew it.  No, scratch that— _plummeting_ , racing down towards whatever was at the bottom, so fast that all the “what ifs” and the “your duties” and the “is now really the times” were drowned out by the air rushing past his ears.  He doubted he could stop if he wanted to, and truth be told, he didn’t really want to at all.

None of which, mind you, was actually a _help_ when he left his head for five minutes, which was why Alistair was desperately jabbing a needle through one of the few bits of leather that was still intact, rather than abasing himself in front of her and kissing her feet.  Besides, if a Blight was the absolute worst time to… fall for someone, then now was probably the absolute worst time among times that happened to be in the middle of a Blight.  Except for during an attack, maybe.  Probably.

“You should probably just scrap the splint mail,” she said as she began dropping bits of ram in the stewpot.  “Hasn’t it been through enough already?”

Alistair sighed, and began hammering the needle through with the thumb of his gauntlet.  “I’m sure we can get it in working order with the right supplies,” he said.  “And the right person.  Look, it’s not my fault the Chantry taught us only the basics.  Maker forbid your templars become anything close to self-sufficient.”

“And if we get attacked in the meantime?”

He looked up.  She was carving off haunches to roast over the fire, and both her eyebrows lifted up, wrinkling the tattoos on her forehead.

“You had to angle yourself to take that genlock’s axe safely last time, Alistair,” she said.  “I don’t want to see you hurt, especially _now_.”

Alistair groaned.  She was right, of _course_ she was right, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.  Their party of eight was reduced to three, they were encamped in two feet of snow and surrounded by pockets of darkspawn, and only two of those in fighting condition had useful things like hands.  “Fine, then,” he said, standing up and spreading his arms.  “What shall I wear, O Mighty Leader?”

She was smirking.  “Oh, I don’t know… how about the one set of full plate we’ve found that’s actually a half-decent fit for you?”

“No.”

“Why not?  It’s good armor.”

“It’s _tacky_.  It’s plated in _gold_ , which, by the way, is rather heavy, the pauldrons go up to my ears, and not to mention, it’s _creepy_!”

“It’ll keep you safe.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Yes, let’s just put Alistair in the shiny gold suit.  Maybe we can attach a dancing magelight to it—‘Hey, darkspawn, over here!’”

“To be fair, that’s about exactly what you yell every single battle already.”

“Well, yes, but—”  He sighed.  “It’s still creepy, and it… it’s not an association I’m keen on encouraging.”

She stood up and walked over to him, and was about to rest a bloody hand on his shoulder when she evidently thought better of it, and let it hover instead.  “Somehow, I don’t think the darkspawn are going to notice.  _Or_ care.”

“The darkspawn might not, but what about everyone else?  I don’t know if you remember this, but we _are_ kind of on the run here.  That armor?  Not exactly subtle.”

“Fine,” she huffed, “don’t wear it when we’re around people.  But the whole reason we decided to bear south was because it was men or darkspawn, and at least we can sense the darkspawn.  Just wear it for now—until everyone else is better.  I really can’t have it be just down to me and Huan.”

She let out a long, shaky sigh, and he could tell by the circles under her eyes and the stoop of her shoulders how tired she was—about as tired as _he_ was, actually, if not worse.  No, she _was_ worse; all he’d really done so far was keep watch, while she’d hunted, and cooked, and tended to the rest of them, and _Maker_ , how was she so amazing?  “Fine,” he said.  “But only while we’re holed up here.”

“Thank you,” said Fíriel, and the smile she flashed him then… well, it was probably a good thing she had no idea how much power it had over him, because there were a lot of things he would have done to see her smile like that.

Like wear that damn armor, apparently.


	2. Day Two

“You know,” Fíriel said mid-yawn, “I don’t think Leliana gives you enough credit.”

“Thank you!” he said brightly, before the rest of his brain caught up with him.  “Wait, credit for _what_?”

“Cooking.”  She snatched a pared elfroot from the pile next to his feet, and began chopping it into the stewpot.  “Even if you overcook your food, you’re still _very_ good at peeling things.”

“Yes, well.”  He smiled wistfully at the dagger in his hand, now pressed into mundane service, and started working on the next root.  “A Chantry education is useful for many things.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Alistair frowned.  No, he supposed, no real reason she’d get that joke.  “Especially when you’re assigned mess duty every time you sing the Chant off-key.  You should _see_ my pot-scrubbing skills.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said, grinning and wagging the knife in his direction.

He groaned.  “Why do I tell you these things?”

A few more minutes, and he’d finished the peeling.  With both of them chopping, they made short work of the roots.

“Now what?” he said.

“We wait till they soften,” said Fíriel.  “That’s the problem with being so far south in the winter—nothing grows fresh here but evergreens.”

“Really?  And here I thought it was the entire party taking sick but us.”

“Oh, are we limited to only one problem at a time?” she said.  “Quick, someone tell Loghain!  He’s not allowed to attack us till the Blight’s over!”

Alistair let out a little snort of laughter, but as he thought it over it turned into a sigh.  If only…

He felt the cool press of her hand against his cheek and froze, suddenly finding himself fighting the urge to lean into it, or reach up and trap it there, or Maker forbid, _nuzzle_ …  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I didn’t intend to remind you.”  She lowered her hand, and his eyes followed it before he could stop himself. 

“Quite all right,” he said, plastering on a smile and only glancing at the dagger before sheathing it in his boot.  It should never have been his, but since it was, he was going to look after it all the same.  “Frankly I’d rather get all my manly tears out of the way now while I have as few witnesses as possible.”

The top of her nose wrinkled a little as her brow furrowed.  “Alistair…”

“I’ll be fine,” he said automatically.  “Nothing to be done about it now, and you have more enough on your plate without having to worry about me.”

Her lips parted, but before she said anything, she closed her mouth and gave her head a decisive shake.  “Just let me know if you need to talk about it.  I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

“Thanks,” said Alistair, and he sat down heavily, half-hugging his knees to his chest.  It wasn’t as if he _wanted_ to be sad, it was just—

Fíriel sat next to him, leaning on her left hand where it lay not even an inch from his.  He sneaked a look at her; she was staring out into the distance just as he’d been.  Of course she was; Duncan had saved her life, too, after all.  She’d opened her mouth again as she breathed deeply, little wisps of steam puffing from her lips, and how was it that lips which typically held such a tight smirk could turn so soft for the half-second they were pressed against his?

_Stop it, Alistair, you’re supposed to be mourning your brother Wardens and sharing a moment with her, not… whatever this is._ But he’d already lowered his hand, so his last two fingers were curling over hers, and why, _why_ was this so bloody difficult?

He’d thought, and quite sensibly, too, that once he’d given her a sign (or something resembling a sign, he hoped; and even if it wasn’t it was still a nice gesture anyway, and an entirely true one, because she _was_ such an unexpected joy in the midst of all this), that this would be easier.  Instead, he found himself second-guessing every little thing he did around her, because it wasn’t as if he could go back to hiding it, could he?  (Not that he’d done a particularly good job of hiding it in the first place…)  She’d thanked him, even _kissed_ him in the process, but how was he to know that that wasn’t just a Dalish way of showing gratitude among friends?  She hadn’t exactly shown him any other sort of… interest… since then.  Had she?

“Do you think it’s the Taint?” he said, more to keep his mind off things than anything else.

“Hmm?” said Fíriel.

“Why we haven’t gotten sick, even though everyone else has.  I’ve… been thinking, and I don’t think I’ve caught ill once since my Joining.  Well, except for that one time I woke up in the mess in a drool puddle with fifty ogres dancing in my skull, but that one was rather my own fault.”

She frowned.  “It might be.  The Taint’s trying to eat our bodies alive; why _wouldn’t_ it want to eat any pestilence living there as well?  In fact… that actually makes a lot of sense.  I was tasting some deathroot for potency yesterday—”

“You were what?”

“And it _tasted_ right, but I didn’t get quite the same numbness in my toes right after.  I was thinking I might finally be building up a tolerance—”

“You were _what_?!”

Fíriel sighed and gave him a patient look, one that half-reminded him of the Sisters at the Chantry.  It was not a good look on her.  “Oh, come on, Alistair, the body processes the toxins out of your system quickly, and only the high doses do any real damage.  Though—if the Taint affects that, I should probably use something stronger on the darkspawn, and—”

“I’m sorry.  Can we go back to the part where you were _tasting deathroot_?”

“In small, practically harmless doses!” she huffed.  “Besides, it didn’t have nearly as strong an effect on me as it used to, and—say, is _that_ why you use more potions than Sten?  I’d thought it was because you took so many hits…”

Alistair boggled at her, momentarily speechless.

Fíriel just smiled.  “I’ll have to concentrate it, adjust the dosages for Wardens.  _Thank_ you, Alistair; you’re a genius!”

“I… _er_.”  He could feel himself going read.  “Are you _sure_ that deathroot had no effect on you?”

She snorted.  “ _Yes_ , Alistair,” she said, with a touch of heat.  “I’m _sure_.”

“Are you really?  Because it _is_ still poisonous, and if you’ve been making this a regular habit…”  He trailed off, suddenly lost in a certain softness in her eyes, as if she believed he was…

_No_.  No, this was _stupid_ ; she was the daughter of a once-immortal race, a people of magic, too proud to yield her faith even surrounded by the people that had made her kin abandon theirs, while he was… well… _Alistair_.  There was no way he could interest her like that; they had nothing in common.

Except for the whole “chalice of darkspawn blood bit,” and being the only two Grey Wardens left, and never having known their parents, and who knew what else?

Maker’s breath.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not quite sure I trust the opinion of someone who thinks nibbling on poisonous roots is a good idea.”

“And you’re entitled to yours,” she said, pushing herself off the ground.  Making her way back to the stewpot, she said, “I think it’s done, now.”

“Oh?” said Alistair.  “And what’s the next step, then?”

“The next step,” Fíriel said, grinning, “is the fun one.”  She made her way to Bodahn and Sandal’s wagon, and with a grunt, lugged over a heavy mortar and pestle.  Once she’d moved all the softened root chunks, she threw in a few leaves and began smashing everything together with so much gusto that he couldn’t help but recall the way she threw herself into a fight.

No, he realized, it was _more_ than that—if she was joyful when she danced on the battlefield, then this was carving the darkspawn into teeny tiny pieces long after they’d stopped twitching, stomping on them, and gleefully grinding them into a fine pulp…

He must have been tired, because he never would have said it aloud otherwise.  “Maker, I am never cheating on you.”

“What was that?” Fíriel said.

“Nothing!”


	3. Day Three

He woke from dreams of slender hands and dark hair whispering against his skin when she gently shoved his shoulders.  “Bwuh?” he murmured, squinting against the midday sun.  _There_ she was, smiling apologetically (what did she have to be sorry over?), and her hair was tied back, except for those two little locks at the side that always escaped, the ones he always wanted to tuck behind her ears…  (How would she look with her hair down?)

“I’m sorry to wake you,” she said, “but I caught myself dozing over the fire, and…”

Alistair sat bolt upright.  “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine; I just need you to sit watch while I sleep.”

He frowned as he studied her face.  The circles under her eyes were like shadows, and her smile had already faded.  “Are you _sure_ you’re getting tired?  You’ve only been providing for the entire camp for—what, three days now?”

“ _And_ Huan—he’s much better at hunting rabbit than I am.  And both of you have been helping guard the rest while I hunt—thanks for that, by the way.”

If he hadn’t just woken up, he’d probably have had a really clever reply to that.  Since he had, though, Alistair just nodded.  “What time is it?”

She looked up, shielding the sun with her hand.  “About an hour past noon, I’d say?”

“An hour past?”  He’d have sat up, but he was already sitting, so he scrambled to his feet.  “You were supposed to wake me at noon!”

She folded her arms and fixed him with a drowsy glare, evidently too tired to join him.  Alistair briefly considered sitting back down, but that would have just drawn attention to it.  “You needed the sleep, and you were doing it peacefully for once.  And now _I_ need the sleep, and—”

“Right.  Right, sorry for questioning my fearless leader’s judgment on four hours of sleep…”  Then again, he wasn’t doing much better, was he?  “Still, next time—”

“There shouldn’t be a next time, _Sylaise enansal’en_.  Sten and Zevran’s fevers broke two nights ago, and they’ve already recovered much of their strength.  It’s just as well, too; I’ve been having to range further to find unblighted game.”

“Good to know,” Alistair said as he stretched the sleep from his muscles.  “I was afraid our luck was never going to—”  He paused.  “Never mind.”

Fíriel let out a wearied chuckle.  “Not keen on tempting fate today?”

“Not yet, at least.  Maybe after a cup of tea…”

“I’ll get you some Dalish tea once we get to the Forest.  I’d get it to you now if we had the right trees.”

“That’s quite all right,” he said.  “You just lie down, and we’ll leave fate to its own devices for the time being.”

She nodded, and crawled over to the bedroll he’d been using, but stopped herself before she lay down.  “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Something else you’ll have to do.”  She pointed at the stewpot sitting over the fire.  “That’ll be ready in another half hour.  Make sure everyone gets some, and add a spoon of what’s in the mortar to the bowls just before serving.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“ _Everyone_ , Alistair,” she said wearily.  “And before you ask, if I wake up because you and Morrigan are yelling at each other again, I shall be very, _very_ cross.”

Oh.  _Right_.  “But… she’s _mean_.”

“Yes, and if you’re nice to her in return, she’ll be incredibly confused.”

“Which will make her _meaner_.”

“Please, Alistair,” she said, yawning.

If she weren’t so obviously tired, he would have sworn she was doing this deliberately.  “All right,” he said.  “Just get some rest, dear, and don’t worry.  I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she laid herself down on the bedroll, weapons at her side.

After five minutes, Fíriel was fast asleep.

After ten minutes, Alistair realized he’d accidentally called her “dear.”

And after thirty minutes, he got up and did her bidding, trusting Huan to sound the alarm if they were attacked.

Their companions’ reactions were about what he expected.  Sten grunted a sort of acknowledgment, Wynne called him a dear young man, Leliana was still too ill to muster much more than a smile (he had to stay with her to make sure she didn’t fall asleep before she’d eaten everything), and Zevran made some sort of snide comment about them being alone together in his tent.  It was a good thing he’d been one of the first to take ill; now would have been the perfect time for him to go back on that oath he’d made Fíriel that Alistair didn’t entirely trust.

And Morrigan… well, it turned out being sick and needing to be waited on just made her even bitchier than usual.

Mindful of the beautiful slumbering elf outside, he poked at his mouth until there was a reasonable approximation of a smile and ducked his head inside.  “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said when he handed her the bowl.

“Playing nursemaid, are we?” said Morrigan.  “I wonder what the Warden promised you in exchange.”

Alistair gritted his teeth together.  “A simple ‘Thank you, Alistair,’ would have sufficed, you know.”

“Or did she merely bat her eyes in your direction, and you tripped over your feet to do her bidding?  I suppose it _could_ be pleasant, having a hunk of dumb muscle she can command as necessary…”

“If you must know, Morrigan,” he bit out, “Fíriel is sleeping off the exhaustion that’s built up over the past few days of keeping us all alive, so I’m doing what I can to help.  If that’s all…”

“Yes,” Morrigan said, smiling like a cat.  “By all means, go forth and watch the Warden sleep.  I’m certain ‘twill be romantic and not at all untoward.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it and backed out of her tent.  _That_ , of course, was when he came up with a retort—not his best, but good enough, considering everything.  “I killed a dragon for you, you know!”

His heart froze—he remembered that whole “no yelling” thing just a _little_ too late—but Fíriel, thank the Maker, did not stir.  And he did _not_ watch her as she slept, no more than was strictly (he hoped) necessary to assure himself that she wasn’t having any nightmares.  But no, for the first couple hours, she looked… almost serene.  Sometime in the middle of his efforts to get everyone fed, she’d removed the thong binding her hair, and cast it over her eyes to block out the sunlight.

Eventually, though, she began twitching in her sleep—small wonder, that; she’d been a Warden for only four months.  He bit his lips together, torn between the impulse to ease her suffering and letting her sleep just a little longer, but when he heard a pained moan, he finally pushed her awake.

She gasped as she sat up, her hair drifting around her face in lovely little wisps, and he tucked his finger under her chin, forcing her to look in his eyes until they lost their wild stare.  “Look at me, Fíriel,” he said.  “Look at me.  You’re here.  It’s fine.  You’re _safe_.”

When she finally came back to herself, she collapsed into his arms, shuddering against his shoulder.  Panic gripped him for a few moments, but he managed to get his arms around her back, and hold her as close as he dared.  After all, that’s what friends did, wasn’t it?

“How much sleep did I get?” Fíriel asked, when her breathing was back to normal.  She extricated herself from his arms.

“Honestly?” said Alistair.  “Three hours.”

Fíriel groaned.

“On the bright side, though, everyone is fed, and nothing’s attacked us.”

She gave him a weak smile, and nodded, _just_ as he picked up on something at the edge of his senses.  “Oh, no,” he said.

“What is it?” said Fíriel.

“Oh, just wait for it.”

“ _Oh_.”  She picked up her blades and rose, and looked about for her bow.  “You just _had_ to say something, didn’t you?”

He picked up the blow and quiver, and handed them to her.  “Yeah,” he said.  “This one’s on me…”

Fortunately, there was only one of it.  Unfortunately, “it” was a bereskarn.

Fíriel’s arrows only made it angry.

“Right,” Alistair said, as the beast crashed through the brush into view.  “I’ll keep it from getting any closer, and you just… work that rogue magic of yours.”

“Sure,” said Fíriel, giggling as she switched to her blades.  “Try not to get yourself killed!”

_Great_ , Alistair thought to himself as she melted into the shadows.  _Only two of us against a blighted_ bear _, and we’re both operating on_ how _many hours of sleep?_

He banged his sword against his shield, before raising both to meet the bear as it towered over him.  At least his peripheral vision was clearer, since he wasn’t—

_Damn._   He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

He was fighting a blighted _bear_ , he’d had _how_ many hours of sleep, and he’d completely forgotten he had a blasted helmet.  This was going to be interesting.

The first swipe of the paw he blocked with his shield, and the second he managed to slash away.  The bereskarn roared, but it didn’t move—from the corner of his eye, he could see Huan had circled around from behind, and had latched his jaw firmly to one of the hind paws.  Good.  Just a few more hits to take, and…

There was a _shunk_ as Fíriel materialized behind the bear and cut its hamstrings.  Alistair moved to the offensive as the bear collapsed, catching its torso on his sword and then pulling the blade out before the beast could fall on him.  Not quite a killing blow, but with its hind legs crippled, there wasn’t much left it could—

The bereskarn bit his arm.

Well, it _was_ going to bite his head, and probably clean off, but he managed to get his arm up in time, bashing its mouth in.  The blow jarred him up to the shoulder, leaving him just vulnerable enough for the last paw swipe to connect with his right ear.

“Hey,” he called out from the snowy ground, which had somehow turned on its side to meet him.  “You’ve got this, right?  I think I’ll take a little nap…”

“Don’t you dare!” he heard her cry, but his head was ringing, and the beast was almost dead… He closed his eyes for only a moment, but the next thing he knew, she was hovering over him, cleaning out the wound on his face with a wet rag.

“Ow,” he mumbled.  “Stings.”

“Quiet, you,” said Fíriel, dabbing at his cheek.  “I don’t want this to get infected, and I don’t want it to scar.  You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.”

“No scar?  Don’t scars attract ladies?”

“Yes, let’s just add ‘competition’ to my list of problems, shall we?”

“Compe… what?”

“Compe…ti-tion…”  She trailed off, staring at him for some unfathomable reason, and disappeared from his view.  When she returned, she rubbed something that smelled poultice-y on the side of his face and wound a bandage over it.  “There,” she said.  “That should hold until Wynne’s well enough to give it a proper look.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “And sorry.”

“Sorry?” said Fíriel.  “What for?”

“You said not to get hurt.  I got hurt.”

“Yes,” she said, “and my hair got blown into my eyes before I could strike, the first time.  Let’s just accept we’re both to blame here, and move on, all right?”

_Right_.  Her hair was down, hanging over him, framing him.  Alistair reached up and buried his hand in it.  “No,” he whispered.  “Not your fault.  All mine.”

“Alistair,” she said, laughing softly.

“What?”

“Your _gauntlet_.”

“Oh!”

She caught his hand before he could tug it out.  “It’s all right, just take your hand out from the gauntlet and I’ll disentangle it later.”

“Sorry,” said Alistair.  His eyelids were drooping, but he didn’t want to move his hand.

“Alistair, _please_.”

Sighing, he pulled his hand from the glove, and she sat up.  She pulled his eyelids open, peering straight into them.  “I’m sorry; I just have to check and then you can go to sleep…  How many fingers am I holding up?”

He focused on her hand.  “Two?”

“Good.”  She nodded once and moved her hand back to the tangled gauntlet, holding it in place.  “Now, can you follow the tip of my nose with just your eyes?”

“Of course,” said Alistair, suiting the action to the word as she turned her face this way and that.  “It’s a very pretty nose.”

“Er,” she said, biting down on the bottom of her lip in a _very_ distracting way, “is it really?”

He reached up with his now gauntlet-less hand and brushed it.  “Yes… like a falcon’s—or a hawk’s.  Perfect for swooping down and taking out your enemies.”  He bopped her once on its tip for good measure.

She smiled at him, and _oh_! that smile…  “I thought swooping was bad?”

“What?”

“You said that shortly after we met.  I… don’t really know what you meant by it.”

“I did?  Well, I didn’t mean it.  Not when it’s you.  Swooping’s good when it’s you.”

“I… uh, I see,” said Fíriel.  She was chewing her lip again.  “I like your nose, too.”

Wait, _what_?  He tried to sit up, but her hands moved to his shoulders and he lay back down.  It was very cold.  “No-o,” he moaned.  “You can’t like my nose.”

“Why not?  It’s a very matter-of-fact nose—as if your face is saying, ‘Yes, this is my nose, and if you have a problem with it you’d best go elsewhere.’”

“But it’s on all the coins!” he whined.

“ _What_?  Alistair—”

It was too late.  He was fumbling around in his belt, till he found the pouch he wanted and handed her a sovereign.  “See?”

She looked at it, turned it over and over in the fading light, and then placed it in his hand, closing his fingers around it.  “Alistair,” she said again.  She shifted to sit fully on the ground, but her hand didn’t leave his.  “You do realize the first time I saw coins was maybe an hour before I met you?  I didn’t even make the connection until you pointed it out to me.”  She sighed.  “I like your nose because it’s _yours_ , you silly man, not because it resembles anyone else’s, living or dead.”

“Oh,” he said.  Maybe that wasn’t so bad, then.

“Go to sleep, Alistair,” she said.  “I don’t think you have a concussion, and hopefully Wynne will be able to tell us for certain soon.”

“All right,” he said, closing his eyes.  “Pretty lady.”


	4. Day Four

Alistair awoke to a bright, sunny day, a head surprisingly clear for having been swiped at by a bereskarn, and a ravenous stomach.  Somehow he’d been moved into a tent, and, going by the muffled sounds outside, a few of them, at least, had recovered enough to stand watch.  He groaned and sat up—he _must_ have been in a bad way if not even his regularly scheduled Chantry guilt could wake him on time.

After a few experimental stretches and double-checking that he was, in fact, still wearing his trousers, he ducked out of the tent to find Sten holding a slobber-covered stick, facing the dog, while Zevran slowly went through forms with his daggers.

“Good morning, Alistair!” said Zevran.  “Have I ever mentioned to you how displeasing I find winter in the south?”

Alistair ignored him and looked about camp.  Fíriel’s tent was pitched right next to Bodahn’s wagon, as if she’d been too tired last night to lug it anywhere else.

“The Warden is sleeping,” Sten said.  “Next time, wear your helmet.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.  Alistair was beginning to realize that, while having their party down to two people and a dog was bloody _exhausting_ , it hadn’t been without its advantages.  At least _Morrigan_ was still sick in her tent.

Still, Fíriel needed the sleep more than he did, so he busied himself about getting himself some breakfast, and then checked over his armor and weapons, trying not to pick at his dressing.

When she finally emerged from her tent, she insisted on seeing it herself, as the person with the most knowledge of field medicine among them, and took him a few paces away from the camp for privacy.  There were still circles under her eyes, but at least she didn’t look quite as haggard.

Her cool, gentle fingers unwound the bandage on his head, and his eyes fluttered shut.  She was close enough that he could feel the whisper of her breath on his face, and at once his mind went back to yesterday, the way her hair curtained them off from the rest of the world, the way he’d reached up to touch her nose…

His eyes snapped open.  _Maker_.  He’d really done that, hadn’t he?  What was he _thinking_?

“Alistair?  You’re flushed; is everything all right?”

“Nothing!” he cried.  “I mean—everything!  Everything’s all right.”  Except it wasn’t, because now every single _word_ he’d said to her yesterday was echoing in his mind, and—sweet Andraste, what must she think of him?

“Good,” said Fíriel.  She turned his head to look at the wound.  “I think it’ll heal well; it looks as if the greater concentration of elfroot did the trick.  Thank you again, by the way, for that idea; I can’t wait to test it further.”

“Fíriel,” he said, in a voice far steadier than his sweaty palms would have suggested, “about yesterday—I know I was tired and injured, but… I still said some things that were very forward, and I wanted to apologize for—”

“Apologize for what?” she said.  She turned his head back to face her, and looked him in the eye.  “We are courting, are we not?”

Alistair blinked.  She… wait, she _knew_?  She had known all along?

“That’s what the rose was, right?  A signal of your intent to court me?”

He moved his hand to scratch the back of his neck.  She wasn’t upset with him?  “I… er, yes?  I think?”

“And I accepted both, didn’t I?  I admit, I’m still not entirely clear on your gift-giving customs, but I thought I heard Duncan’s explanations aright…”

“But…  I thought…  You…”  He shook his head.  “Look, how was I to know that wasn’t just a Dalish way of saying, ‘Oh, that’s so sweet of you, but let’s just stay friends’?”

“Alistair,” she said, “under _my_ people’s ways, giving me that rose would mean we were already married.”

Alistair could feel his jaw drop.  A whole _slew_ of interesting, but ultimately pointless, pictures flooded into his mind.  “ _Married_?”  He chuckled.  “You won’t land me _that_ easily, woman!  I know I’m, ah, quite the prize after all; no need to start crying on me or anything…”  He winced.

“Good to know,” Fíriel said drily.  “Still, you understand why Duncan felt the need to inform me.  The People hold their belongings in common, so giving something you found or made yourself to one person in particular…”

“Ah… yes.  That would get awkward rather quickly, wouldn’t it?  Going from that to here, I mean, where—well, you’ll get gifts just for surviving another year.”

“You will?”

He grinned.  “Assuming anyone bothers remembering your nameday.”

“But ‘just because’ is a good occasion for humans, too, right?  I’ve been _trying_ to make sure I give you all things, so you know how much you’re valued.  Is it working?”

“I… think it is?  Say, is that why you gave me the amulet?”

She reached over and cupped his cheek.  “The amulet was already yours, Alistair.  I just returned it to you.  I was thinking more of that little stone demon statuette.”

“Oh,” he said, a smile finding its way to his lips.  “Then yes, it’s definitely working.”

“Good.  Anyhow, my discussion with Duncan turned to gifts as a means of courtship, and… well, your rose seemed to fit the definition.  If I misinterpreted—”

“No!  No, you didn’t.  Not at all.  It’s just—Maker’s breath, _why_?  Why would you just… agree, just like that?”

She took his hands in hers, smiling steadily at him.  “Well, we’re both Wardens.  That makes us part of the same clan, so there’s nothing saying we _can’t_.  And… I was curious.”

He laughed, wishing he had a hand free to bury his face in.  “You were curious, were you?”

“Alistair.”  She lifted one hand back to his cheek, then lowered it slowly.  “This doesn’t have to turn into anything, if you don’t want it to.  But I realized… if I said ‘no,’ I’d always regret never learning if it could.”

“Oh,” he said.  “I… think I see what you mean.  If… if I’d lost my nerves, I… think I’d have always wondered, too.”

“Good,” she said.  “I admit, I was wondering why you hadn’t been… continuing your pursuit—assuming you’re still supposed to, of course.  I didn’t want to press things.”

“Ah,” said Alistair.  “And here I was, waiting for you to give me some sort of signal I couldn’t misinterpret with all my wishful thinking.”

She snorted with laughter, and gave his lands a squeeze.  “I’m just glad it’s because I wasn’t clear, and not because you’d changed your—”

“Maker, _no_!” he said immediately, reaching up to brush one of those beautiful locks of hair.  “I’d never change my mind; you’re…”  He paused.  “All sorts of words I can’t think of at the moment, because you tie my tongue in knots.”

“Your tongue’s in knots?” she said, smiling.  “That might make things tricky in the future.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” he said.  “Well, if you want to have a go at _un_ tying my tongue, you’re welcome to.”

Fíriel’s smile broadened into a positively _wicked_ grin, and his heart did a funny little lurch.  “With what?”

“ _Ah_ ,” he said, feeling his ears flush bright.  “Well… er, assuming we’ve gotten this all straightened out for the time being, maybe we can just… stick to the basics, for now?  For instance: may I kiss you, Fíriel?”  He clutched at the hand he was still holding and tried to swallow his nerves.”

“May you kiss me?  I thought I made my opinions on that clear when I thanked you for the rose.”

“Good to know,” said Alistair, and he reached up to cradle her face in both hands.  Edging closer to her, his eyes drifted shut of their own accord—just in time for his ever-helpful nose to collide directly with hers.  “Blast it.”

Fíriel snickered.

“ _Hush_ , you,” he said, suddenly determined to get this right.  Besides, if his time in the Chantry had taught him anything, it was that things improved with enough practice, and by the Maker, he wanted the practice.  So he leaned in, and pressed a feather-light kiss to her lips (And why did he feel so nervous?  It was _practice_!), then another, and another, until somehow she was sighing in his arms, beaming at him when he pulled away long enough to gaze into her eyes, and he could feel his heart melt a little more each time.  “Good?” he said.

“ _Very_ good,” said Fíriel.  “ _Ma serannas_.”

“Ma-ser… what?”

“It means, ‘Thank you,’ Alistair.”

“Oh,” he said, blushing again.  “Well, in that case—you’re welcome?”  He sighed.   “We should probably get back to the others.  This isn’t over until everyone’s recovered, after all.”

“We should,” she agreed.

But he kept hold of her hand as they walked back to the camp, and found that it fit his very well.

“Alistair?” Fíriel asked as they walked.

“Ye-es?”

“Next time… let’s just talk things through, shall we?  Instead of assuming what the other does or doesn’t know.”

He laughed.  “That sounds like an excellent idea.  I _knew_ it was smart, putting you in charge.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” she said.  “I was the one that wanted us to stick to the frozen south, after all.  Maybe, if we’d gone north and risked Loghain’s men, nobody would have gotten sick.”

And maybe they wouldn’t have.  But somehow, now that everyone else was on the mend, and things between the two of them were out in the open, Alistair couldn’t bring himself to regret her choice.  It was still a very long shot, he knew, because she was still Fíriel and he was still him, but for the first time since he’d noticed the flash of her smile against the setting sun, Alistair thought he might actually stand a chance.


End file.
